Anything That Can Happen, Will Happen
by Seawise Giant
Summary: Mostly Johnlock-based stories, with a new one each chapter unless stated otherwise . Prologue has a sort of introduction. M for the range of ratings and genres, though each will be addressed individually.
1. Prologue: Introduction

Because I have many BBC!Sherlock-related "projects" that I will be unable to finish, and with all the more coming in and slapping me straight in the face, I'll lengthen or shorten the aforementioned projects to make little chapter-long stories. That being said, some may be longer than a chapter; and the chapter can range in size.

The genres roll about the spectrum quite freely (ranging from affectionate wedlock to broken, spilling bodies), and can be AUs based off of other books. The word count and inspiration for each, if I remember, will be placed at the beginning of each chapter, with a warning to what's inside as well.

As for pairings, most will be Johnlock. All that I have written now is Johnlock, but, to appease another ship of mine and to tickle a friend's fancy, Mystrade may come into play. Possibly Jostrade, or Sheriarty, if I'm feeling dangerous. Quite possibly, the first chapter can be taken as platonic or shipless—all up to you. Though if the ship is obvious, it will be stated.

Enjoy.

-Seawise Giant


	2. One: Of Ashen, Of Light

**Word Count:** 982

**Ship: **Johnlock, if so desired. Or just S.S. Friendship sailing along.

**Rating:** T, I guess.

**Warning(s):** I suppose if blood and broken/exposed bones and rolling organs (the last of which is only vaugely hinted at, though) digusts you, you should steer clear.

**Inspiration:** Dreamt it up. Crazier than it's written, actually. And less blood-stained, shall we say. But, oh well.

* * *

John watched, eyes wide as Sherlock confronted Moriarty. His heart thudded even harder in his chest when Moriarty let out a low laugh, the organ far too loud, he thought, though he made no attempt to silence it, for most certainly Moriarty's right-hand man had already resumed the stalking of a hot trail. Doctor John Watson's trail, to be exact, but being exact takes time and he hadn't the single tick from the universal clock hanging over everyone's head to elaborate. In fact, from the sound of it, he had but five more steps before the sprinting henchman grabbed him. Horror and panic and fuzzy thoughts smothered out the rest of the coherency his body harboured-he only knew that he had to either jump or fall victim to the man's crushing arms, and neither seemed entirely pleasant. On one hand, he could jump and possibly turn out to be Of Light Wing...or he could turn out to be Of Ashen, in which case the fall would end with Moriarty-or Sherlock—scraping up bits of John from the pavement.

And if he stayed to endure the man's clutch, he might be able to fight him off-that is, if he is Of Ashen Wing. There's no way an Unawakened (if time was even _less_ on his side), or a 'Light Wing, could possibly even _think _of fending against someone so strong. John'd be destroyed! Quite literally torn apart and fed to the underlings, if he wasn't eaten right then and there, that is.

His feet were already placed on the ledge, he noticed now that he had taken a moment to suppress a disgusted shudder and force the images of his untimely death back to the untraveled shadows of his mind. And with the burly man just one long stride behind, fingertips brushing the dancing back of John's jacket, he had to decide immediately what to do.

God, he needed time, _just another tick!_, yet as he silently begged he felt his weight shift forward, jacket flicking out of the way of those fingers struggling for purchase. His eyes focused on Sherlock for a moment, unaffected by the way the wind seemed to threaten to suck the moisture out of them. Blue eyes watched him plummet in return, looking terrified and shocked and _sick_before upset confusion took over when Moriarty pinned him to the concrete.

_Damn this bloody building,_ John hissed inwardly as his arms instinctively moved to catch him. It wasn't a skyscraper, for which he was grateful, but it wasn't exactly a short fall, either. He had enough time to think that he hated falling—it upset his belly and the wind was far too intrusive when it came to his body heat—and that Moriarty was a real underhanded bloke. He'd known that last part already, but the feeling struck him anew and with such strength that it should be mentioned and, if his arms were not too busy snapping below his weight and with the force of the impact, and if the matter of time were not an issue, he would have attempted to shout and throw something at the vile man (even though he knew well enough such an endeavour would be pointless, as wind resistance and the like would force whatever he threw to move very little indeed).

In other words, he'd fallen for _far too long_.

And then, suddenly, finally, there he lay, after an eternity's worth of musings and falling, splattered over the section of road that looked far lesser in size than his body parts currently observed.

"_John!_"

Surely his soul was laying amongst the ruin, recording the grunted sounds of Sherlock's voice as he struggled to wriggle out from Moriarty's hold. Surely he just couldn't move because he was unused to such a ghostly form, and thus was forced to listen to the desperate cries. He'd heard the curly-haired man sound like that when there was a gun pressed to the doctor's own head, only now it seemed to be topped off with a few more shots of despair and slathered in the unsettling foam of...pleas, was it?

He wasn't quite sure, and it would be wrong to blame him or accuse him of not listening to his dear Consulting Detective, due to the fact that there was an odd crackling, and whistling sound occupying the forefront if his distressed attention.

The noise, disturbingly close to what bones sound like when they break, managed to startle him into sitting up, which then allowed him to see the jagged bones if his ribcage re-inflating his lungs before settling back into their natural position.

"God, Sherlock," John wheezed with a hoarse voice after his jaw had fused itself back together and popped into place. The situation was revolting-everything squirmed and rolled into their designated spots, fixing and repairing and just rebuilding as if he had a magnetic core, and all the little pieces were pure metals drawn straight to it.

Both Moriarty and Sherlock stopped their skirmish, entranced (in Moriarty's case, for he had never seen the regenerative powers of a 'Light Wing and the sight lit a light of creativity deep in his chest) or relieved (in Sherlock's case, for his partner wasn't actually dead).

And when John's body stopped twitching and allowed him to sink back and sit on his heels, he lifted his eyes to see that Sherlock had had his shock taken advantage of, arm twisted behind his back and face all but shoved against the ground, though he made a point to keep his line of vision on John.

Moriarty tsk'd, and then let out another laugh as John shoved himself to his feet, hands clenched in fists and tongue darting out to clear his lips of the blood that had oozed from his nose. Bright eyes twinkled with excitement as the maybe-not-so-ordinary man—or, rather, 'Light Wing took careful steps forward.

"Well, Sherlock, looks like your guardian angel is here to save you."

* * *

**A/N:** I apologize that this had to be the first chapter, but at least I tried to write it a bit more tame; written all in study hall, too. Got excited and decided to post it relatively quickly, so just point out any mistakes and I'll correct them.


End file.
